Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9)

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Leyton nods – encouragingly, it seems – for she continues promptly.

  ‘So it was around midnight when we got there. We parked some distance away. Levi agreed to wait nearby – within hearing – I insisted that Roger spoke to me on the deck of the yacht – so that I could call for help if necessary.’

  ‘Did you go inside the cabin?’

  She shakes her head – and now looks acutely at her inquisitor – as if she detects some special significance in his tone.

  ‘No – first I called to him from the pontoon – then I only went onto the companionway – that was where I talked to him.’

  ‘And what passed between you?’

  Now Rhiannon Rees sighs – as if it will pain her to revisit the events.

  ‘I could tell straightaway I was wasting my time. He just wouldn’t listen. He started going on about how he’d pulled it off – it was just a matter of lying low for a bit longer – and then how I would help him to get away – and claim all the insurance money, posing as my sister – it was a total fantasy – and before I knew it he was talking about us again – getting married – as if we’d never had the altercation at my cottage.’

  She hesitates – and stares anxiously at DS Leyton – it is evident that she has reached the salient point.

  ‘And then what?’

  She takes a quick breath.

  ‘He tried to kiss me – and I pushed him in.’

  ‘You pushed him in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Into the marina?’

  She nods.

  DS Leyton is obviously wondering whether he ought to be hearing this alone – he even cranes around and looks appealingly at the camera – no doubt wishing it will function properly. But he must soldier on.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well – his lifejacket inflated – and I think the shock of the cold water brought him partly back to his senses. He was floating just a couple of yards from the boat – and he began apologising and asking me to go below deck so that we could talk about it – and work something out.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t trust him. If you knew Roger – he could appear sincere and then a second later reveal a ruthless streak. And there was something in the tone of his voice that convinced me to go. I decided just to get away while I was still out of his reach. I mean – if I’d waited on deck and he’d grabbed me – and I’d screamed for Levi – that would have got ugly.’

  ‘So are you saying you left while Mr Alcock was still in the water?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Floating?’

  ‘Yes – his lifejacket was keeping him up – I mean – Roger could swim like a dolphin, anyway.’

  ‘And did he hit his head?’

  ‘No – it was big patch of clear water where he fell.’

  ‘So you’re saying that when you last saw him he was perfectly well – in no distress – albeit in the water beside the boat?’

  ‘That’s exactly it. As I walked quickly away I could hear what I thought was the sound of him getting back on board. I went along the main pontoon and up the steps beside the marina clubhouse where Levi was standing.’

  ‘And did you wait to see if Mr Alcock got back on board safely?’

  Now she places her palms together before her breastbone; it is almost an attitude of prayer.

  ‘No – but – I mean – Roger spent half of his life in the water – I knew that he would be fine – I’d realised it was a mistake going to see him – I just wanted to get away in case he tried to come after us.’

  DS Leyton ponders his next line of inquiry.

  ‘So – when we found a record of Mr Armstrong’s tow-truck driving along the A66 towards Cockermouth at about half-past midnight on Tuesday – you were in the vehicle with him?’

  ‘That’s correct, sergeant.’

  DS Leyton scratches his head.

  ‘When did you drive out to Maryport?’

  ‘Oh – we didn’t – I mean to say, I took the bus to Workington – I met Levi at his cousin Earl’s scrapyard – to save him coming back over for me.’

  ‘So Mr Armstrong really was at his relative’s business premises?’

  Skelgill can see that Rhiannon Rees is mildly amused by his sergeant’s rather surprised tone. She nods encouragingly as DS Leyton continues.

  ‘You see, madam – it’s just that when I questioned you both yesterday, he didn’t mention you were with him – in fact neither of you did. I seem to recall you thought you were at home in bed.’

  Rhiannon Rees rather shamefacedly bows her head – but then she gathers herself and re-establishes eye contact.

  ‘Look sergeant – I realise I have made some bad mistakes during this – your investigation. I’d like to stress a couple of points. Firstly – Levi was misguidedly covering up for me – I’m not a hundred percent sure he doesn’t think I caused Roger’s death – after all – I pushed him in and he heard that.’

  ‘But he also heard him speaking to you while he was in the water – and he wasn’t shouting for help?’

  ‘Yes – that’s right – but you have to understand Levi – the way he thinks – his family – they’re – how can I put it – they probably feel persecuted – Levi’s natural default is to assume the worst and say nothing to anybody – let alone the police.’

  DS Leyton nods. Skelgill notes that he picks her up on a detail.

  ‘You said there were a couple of points, madam?’

  ‘Yes – also that I suppose I have been covering up for Levi – not that he’s done anything wrong – but exactly what I just said. By the time the police began interviewing us and chasing Levi with questions – the whole situation had changed. We left Roger alive and kicking – beside the boat, and in his lifejacket – but the next morning he was found dead. And then there was an announcement to the effect that the death was not an accident.’ (At this juncture Skelgill’s gaze is piercing – he raises an eyebrow that can only be in recognition of her tact on his behalf.) ‘If the police got any inkling that Levi had reasons to resent Roger – the money – trying it on with me – how much further would they have looked for a culprit? Especially if they had known Levi was there?’

  ‘We, madam.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Well – you say they. It would have been us – Inspector Skelgill’s section. I’m sure we would have dealt with the matter fairly. I mean to say – we have.’

  She nods – she makes a gesture of apology.

  ‘Yes – I’m sure you have – and you will – I hope.’

  *

  Skelgill pauses the recorded stream. His original intention was to skim through and catch up with the live feed, but such has been the intensity of revelation that he has been glued to the recording. He folds his arms. He nods slowly to himself. Rhiannon Rees’s account of what happened on the yacht corresponds almost exactly with that of Albert Bass – albeit the latter witnessed an aural version of events from the grassy area beyond the bench seat – whilst trying to locate with an inadequate torch Charles III’s nocturnal output.

  But there is a postscript. After Rhiannon Rees had left the boat Albert Bass heard something else. It began with the controlled splashing of the person in the water – and then what sounded like they were clambering up the side of the yacht – hollow clunks and swishing and suchlike. There was his voice – calling softly to someone – and that someone emerging from below deck and replying to him. And then several miscellaneous noises of clunking and scraping – suddenly brought to an abrupt end by a dull thud, and a groan. After that there was silence. And, since the rain then began to fall and Charles III’s ‘exercise’ was completed, Albert Bass decided enough was enough. He turned for home and did not think a great deal more about it. He put it down to young folks having had a bit of a drunken bender, and maybe falling out among themselves at the death. Ahem.

  *

  Skelgill realises that for some minutes he has been staring blindly at
the frozen screen – the still shot of the austere interview room, DS Leyton with his broad back to the camera, Rhiannon Rees facing across the desk. Even in the low-resolution image, he can see that she is an attractive woman, her long blonde hair with its cornrows, her strong regular features, her bare shoulders and tanned skin, her shapely figure and easy manner. Then he also becomes aware that his mobile phone – switched to silent on the desk beside him – is vibrating. It is DS Jones. He glances at his wristwatch. She is late.

  ‘You lost?’

  ‘Lost, Guv? Wait until you hear this. We got him!’

  ‘Him?’

  Skelgill is uncharacteristically stupefied, but perhaps the physical and emotional trauma of last night is beginning to exact some toll.

  ‘Nick Bridgwater, Guv!’

  DS Jones sounds positively jubilant. Skelgill tries to rouse himself. But his response is hardly any more articulate.

  ‘What?’

  However, DS Jones needs no prompting.

  ‘I’m calling from the police station at Manchester Airport. We arrived about an hour early – for my lift and the arrival of the VIP that my driver from the Met was collecting. So we stopped for a coffee in the main concourse. I saw him – I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was at a ticket desk. After he’d gone I went over and showed them my warrant card. They told me he’d just booked on a flight to Gibraltar – it was departing in about 45 minutes.’

  ‘Aye?’ Skelgill seems to be slow in taking in her account.

  ‘But that wasn’t even the big news – he’d used Roger Alcock’s passport!’

  Skelgill remains silent.

  ‘It took me about twenty minutes to mobilise the Border Force – they stopped him at the departure gate – he kicked up a big fuss – insisting he was Roger Alcock.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Here – in a detention room – I thought you might want to come down and caution him, Guv – make the formal arrest in person?’

  Skelgill is nodding grimly.

  ‘Aye – happen I might. Wait for me in that café.’

  22. TWO DAYS LATER – Friday

  ‘Seen the forensic bulletin, Guv?’

  DSs Leyton and Jones (and teas) arrive in tandem at Skelgill’s office to find him scowling at his computer screen. For once it appears he has taken it upon himself to read something – and, indeed, it is just a short report, a précis of more that will follow, when a great bulk of evidence is compiled for forensic purposes. Studded with bullet points, it is the kind of report that he likes. On the same morning that Skelgill had driven down to Manchester airport to rendezvous with DS Jones – indeed, in an event contemporaneous with his journey – a police diver had surfaced in Maryport marina – a stone’s throw from the 30-foot cruiser yacht Serena – triumphantly raising a blue polythene bag as though he had found Excalibur. Of course, the bag contained no such ancient relic – but instead a modern-day hand-axe (subsequently identified by Maeve Alcock as belonging to her husband, and – as noted by Skelgill – missing from the block where Roger Alcock had erratically chopped wood just prior to his waterborne exit). It was wrapped in several sheets of domestic paper towel, partially disintegrated, but nonetheless retained by the protective bag. The nub of the scientific findings were the following: firstly, the rounded back of the axe head had attached tiny fragments of skin and a hair that matched the DNA of Roger Alcock; secondly, the paper towel contained traces of Nick Bridgwater’s blood. A more comprehensive single piece of evidence in corroboration of events that had already been deduced it would be hard to imagine. This deduction being that Nick Bridgwater, concealed below deck while Rhiannon Rees was present, emerged upon her departure and – perhaps in proffering his erstwhile business partner a hand out of the water – and in that moment when the latter was at his most vulnerable, on all fours upon the deck, dispensed a blow from the axe that rendered him unconscious. Then it was a matter of deflating the lifejacket, and returning the hapless victim to the water, either to let the ebb tide do its work, or perhaps making use of the yacht’s dingy to tow him into the channel. Nick Bridgwater, experienced sailor, understanding the local currents and winds, and cognisant of Roger Alcock’s plan – the kayak abandoned further south, awaiting discovery – knew that the body would wash up roughly in accord with predictions – giving succour to the theory that Roger Alcock had met with an accident. That Roger Alcock only had one set of clothes – those he hastily departed wearing – added authenticity to this explanation. But somewhere in the process Nick Bridgwater – his blood pressure no doubt raised – got a nosebleed, and took pains to dispose of the staunched blood – sinking it with the axe.

  ‘Exactly what you thought, Guv.’

  Skelgill reaches for the nearest mug of tea; he pulls a doubtful face, as if to deflect DS Jones’s acclaim. DS Leyton grunts as he lowers himself into his regular seat beside the filing cabinet; his muscles still carry a reminder of his heroics on Tuesday night.

  ‘Maybe he’ll admit it now, Guv?’

  Skelgill frowns over his mug.

  ‘He’s taking the Fifth, and that’s it.’

  A resigned nod passes around those heads in the room, though they do not show signs of being dispirited. After a few moments of silence, Skelgill addresses DS Jones.

  ‘Where are we with the report for the prosecutor?’

  This is Skelgill’s own particular version of the ‘royal we’ – one that claims ownership of, or credit for, a certain item, when in fact ‘you’ would be a far more accurate personal pronoun to employ. DS Jones, however, takes no offence. She has with her a sheaf of papers, which now she brings to the fore.

  ‘There are a few areas I wanted to clarify with you, Guv – before I can finish this skeleton draft.’ She glances inclusively at DS Leyton. ‘And some aspects I couldn’t keep up with while I was in London.’

  Skelgill settles back in his sprung chair and folds his arms – this may be a pre-emptive manoeuvre to avoid being handed a document.

  ‘Fire away.’

  DS Jones grins good-naturedly. She reads silently for a moment from her uppermost page.

  ‘To begin with – what we believe were Roger Alcock’s motives and movements – since that brings in several of the peripheral queries. This is what I’ve got so far – I’ll paraphrase. Roger Alcock was an unstable personality – believed to be bipolar – prone to erratic behaviour – sexually promiscuous – irresponsible financially. Personal debts that he had incurred largely through the business were mounting, along with significant company debts – initial bank reports (and discussions with Headley Holmes, as landlord, and others) are confirming this. He’d had in mind the idea of escaping his debts – by faking his own death – and he had probably discussed this with his business partner Nick Bridgwater – it would get them both out of a hole if all the insurances could be claimed. Nick Bridgwater – who handled the firm’s financial affairs – had increased the keyman sums insured a few months earlier, which indicates he was party to the idea – at the very least he was hedging his bets. He was clearly aware of Roger Alcock’s personal difficulties – and knew where he kept the correspondence in the flat. Then comes the flood – it’s immediately obvious to Roger Alcock that the business is devastated in the short term – bang goes what cash flow there was to cover debt instalments. So – in a haphazard manner – really on the spur of the moment and without consulting with Nick Bridgwater – he implements his hare-brained plan. He grabs some supplies – and the axe from the garden at Walkmill – makes sure that he is seen in his kayak in the town centre – and then sets off for the boat. He calls in to see Rhiannon Rees. Whether that was also a spontaneous act – she says it must have been – we can’t know. In any event, he departs – successfully negotiates the River Derwent – and paddles north along the coast until he reaches Flimby. He abandons the kayak –’ At this juncture DS Jones hesitates and looks to Skelgill. ‘I think it said something in your notes about bladder wrack and rainwater, Guv?’


  Skelgill glances in turn at DS Leyton – who was of course present while such obscure clues of flotsam and jetsam were lodging themselves amongst the rocks of his superior’s subconscious; indeed to whom Skelgill has already expounded some part of his theory.

  ‘The kayak was deliberately beached – it was lying on a spring high water mark that didn’t correspond to the day of the apparent stranding. There was rainwater in the hull – too much rainwater – given we then learned that the body had been in the sea only a matter of hours. The timings didn’t stack up. I knew something wasn’t right.’ He glances about. ‘We all knew that – we kept saying it. The timings were all to cock.’

  His colleagues nod in agreement. Skelgill falls silent – and so DS Jones picks up her thread.

  ‘Roger Alcock damaged the shell of the kayak with the axe – to make it look like he’d had a collision on the river. Then he hiked along the coastal path to Maryport – probably by now after midnight – and gained access to the yacht, Serena. He may secretly have obtained a copy of the key – or Nick Bridgwater may have given him one. Basically he lay low – apart from apparently making an anonymous call from a phone box to a news channel to report himself missing. On the same Tuesday morning his wife independently notified us. She maintains that at no stage did she know that Roger Alcock had hidden himself away at the boat – and that the reason for her delay was that she suspected he was staying with a woman. That she imagined it could be her sister made it doubly difficult to speak out. No evidence has yet emerged to suggest he was involved in a current relationship. However, Maeve Alcock has admitted that she was having an affair with Nick Bridgwater.’

  DS Jones pauses – she looks up from her notes to see that her two male colleagues are affording her their full attention, facial expressions relaxed, mouths sagging slightly open, breathing ponderous. She would be excused for feeling rather like a schoolmarm at story time. However, she presses on undaunted.